


True Friends

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:25:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It is because you're still his best friend.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	True Friends

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on LJ on January 14th, 2007.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.
> 
> From Fabian Gerber's POV - the guy who's Sebastian Kehl's longtime best buddy and plays with Mainz 05.

Imagine you've got a best friend. You've known him for years, decades even. You share everything, no secrets between the two of you. You're as thick as thieves. You go on vacation at least once a year, twice when you can manage it (which is manage-able, after all).

And you have both great girlfriends; they get on well with each other, too, so that you don't have to worry about that. For a time, you think that this is just _perfect_, that nothing'll come between the two of you, that it'll all go on like that forever.

But then, being just that bit better at football than you, he gets an offer from Bayern. Bayern motherfucking Munich. And he comes to you, half scared and half elated, asks you, "What should I do?" and you shrug, but then you swallow your jealousy and envy (you're only human, after all) and tell him to grasp the chance. A chance he'll probably never get again in his life.

He nods, tells you that he'll think about it.

The next time you hear from him he tells you he's ditched the offer and is going to Dortmund instead.

You wonder where this one came from. He never told you about any wish to join the BVB, at least as far as you can remember. And then people ask you about him, why he did it, what do you think, and you can just shrug and say, "No comment," because honestly – you're as clueless as they are.

And then he's at Dortmund, settling in, and you call each other at least once a week, and he sounds happy, and that's when you start hearing about him.

_Him._

You think, 'good, he's found friends in the team already,' because you remember how difficult it was for him at Freiburg in the beginning, and you're happy for him. And then you drive to Dortmund on a weekend that you've taken off – actually, you had to do rehabilitation exercises, but you told the physio that you'd do double shift the next day, and please, you just needed some fresh air and the guy had nodded and grinned.

You've told him that you'll be coming, and he invites you to come along, to an outing with _him_. You're a bit disappointed, of course, because you wanted to spend some hours alone with him, but at least it's still time spent with your best friend, so you try not to mind too much.

And then he's there, hugging you, "It's been too long," and you laugh, and then he turns and smiles, his arm still around your shoulders, and it's just as it ever was, and then he says, "Metze, meet Fabian Gerber. Fabe, meet Christoph Metzelder."

He is actually a very nice guy, you discover. You get along with him, too, and you laugh at Metze's jokes and chuckle when he rolls his eyes at Basti, and you can see why Basti likes him. Spends so much time with him.

When you say goodbye to Basti, you say, "I liked him," and Basti grins at you, a big shit-eating grin, and he says, "Of course."

Months later, Basti phones you and asks you if you'd mind if Metze'd join you on your summer vacation to Ibiza.

At first, you wanted to let loose the, "Yes," that pushed against your lips, but then you swallowed it down. You don't have a claim on Basti. You're just his best friend. And so you say, "No, not at all. He's welcome."

If you taste something like bile on your tongue when you close your cell, you decide to not notice it. (Which didn't work, by the way.)

The holiday is great. You feared – yes, you're that shallow – that Basti and Metze would only hang out together, but this is not so. Basti flops down on the beach beside you, sprinkling some sea water onto you and you yelp, "fuck you, Basti," and he just laughs, and then you wrestle for fun, and when you splutter because there's sand everywhere, in your hair, in your trunks and your mouth, you know nothing has changed. And it hasn't. There's just one more person there at snooker (but Metze loses way too easily, really) and he doesn't try to insert himself into the friendship that you and Basti share.

(But there are one or two – okay, a few times when you see the two of them together. For example, when you've gotten up too late and they're already seated downstairs, and Metze's laughing at something Basti said, and your best friend chucks something at him – a slice of pineapple, maybe – and Metze shakes his head at Basti's antics, but he's smiling in a way that says that he doesn't mind Basti. That he's happy to be with Basti. And you wonder if Metze felt a certain awkwardness, too, when Basti asked him to come along on your vacation.)

And so it goes. Some of your vacations, Metze's there, too. At least three in the last years, you think. The last time was after the World Cup.

That time, though – something was different. Not between you and Basti, no. You both were just the same, even if you now talked more about family and kids and all that. You did grow up, after all – you were the one already a father, and he was going to become one.

But him and Metze – they were different. They did still talk, but they shut up when you came close, or they changed the topic. There was something at stake, but you didn't know what it was. And the few times you were alone with Basti, you didn't feel like bringing it up. You told yourself that it wasn't really your business.

And then this one morning. (How you wish you had slept in instead.)

You went downstairs, knocked on Basti's door. Waited for sounds. Or his grumblysleepy voice, "what the fuck?" But there was nothing. You knocked again. "Basti?" Still nothing. You thought, maybe he's already awake?

But Basti wasn't to be found at the buffet. You saw only the two elderly couples that had dared to come out to Ibiza for a spell of rejuvenation, nodded at them and went outside, breathing in the warm balmy air. At the swimming pool maybe?

Not there.

Maybe he really was in his room after all? But then, you know that he's a light sleeper. At least he always has been.

You don't know what makes you walk back into the hotel, to room no. 2913. Metze's room. You don't know what makes you _not_ knock on the door. You stand in front of it, not knowing what to do. But then you hear steps. Someone's in the room.

You're about to turn around and head back to the buffet when you hear a voice.

"Fuck this."

It is Basti. You're rooted to the spot. (Not really. You're edging closer towards the door, trying to listen.)

"…and me, too?"

Metze.

A low chuckle. And then nothing. No – not exactly nothing. There are the steps again. Stopping. Something is said that you can't make out. And then it's silent save for some small sounds you can't really identify.

There – that was something. A strange sound. You _know_ what it is, but you can't remember. Again.

It's sobbing. Someone's crying in there.

And this is where you realize that you're walking down the hall, towards the elevators, the sobbing still ringing in your ears, and you just nod at the cute chambermaid walking past you, "good morning, mister Gerber," and then you're sitting down at a table, a plate piled high with just about everything from the buffet in front of you.

But you aren't hungry. Not in the least.

Later, you're at the beach. Squinting into the sun, the latest Grisham thriller lying next to you in the sand.

"Hey," and Basti sits down next to you.

"Hey," you say, looking at him and glad that you've put your sunglasses on. "Everything okay?"

He shrugs, but you catch the small frown. "Pretty much, yeah." Stretches out beside you, the light tan already noticeable even with the sunglasses you're wearing.

"Where's Metze?" you inquire casually.

"Swimming," he answers curtly, and you detect something in his voice. Something you haven't heard in a long time. (Since Tina broke up with him, about four years ago. But they were back together after a week.)

You nod. What else should you say, really? And so the two of you stay there like that. On the beach, the expanse of greywhite sand almost blinding you and the almost-turquoise of the sea going on forever and ever, curving at the horizon. Proof that the earth is round, after all.

***

And then Luis is born.

You congratulate him and you send him a huge package with everything a new father needs (some child care books, a little Mainz 05 football for kiddies – to practice – and a huge box of earplugs and other things). And then you and Eva and Ben visit them, and Basti's glowing with happiness and Tina's smiling at him, indulgently, and little Luis cries a lot, but he's beautiful all the same, and you can already see that he's got Basti's eyes.

"Welcome to the club," you say, smiling.

He grins. "Yeah. Feels weird, doesn't it?"

"You'll get used to it," you say, nudging him.

And it's just like it always was, and when you drive home with your own little family, you think that this is _it_. That you'll always be the bestest friends forever and ever. That it'll go on like that.

***

But when you hear about him and Christoph Metzelder years later, many years later, you're not surprised. Not in the least bit. And when people ask you, you just shrug and say, "No comment," but that's not because you don't know anything about it.

It is because you're still his best friend.

~ fin ~


End file.
